


Get One

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, POV First Person, Quadruple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 10:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7099135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lúthien isn't happy with Beren's plan to send her back to Doriath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get One

As my guards slept, I ran. The road was dusty-dry with summer's heat, and above me the trees mingled their branches, as if to embrace. And I rushed onward, feet flying swifter than they ever did when I danced. I ran in hope and fear, to save you from death. 

Love is strange and powerful. They'll sing in later days of Doom and Fate, at places in our tale, Beren, where I felt only passion. Do you think to turn me back, to depart from my side? You speak of childish comforts - bright gems, fine clothing - _the delights of the queens of the Eldalië_ \- as if they were all I could ever want. Do you think if I felt so, I would have ever woven this cloak and slipped down from the tree that became my prison? 

We'll dare go into the dark hell together, or neither of us will go. You speak of protecting me, of saving me from death if I am arrayed against the Evil that besets our world. But there is now no saving me from death - it will touch me whether or not I am struck down by the Dark Foe, because of my love for you. 

But death I do not fear. Existing in a world without you is the only thing that holds any terror for me. If I could have all I wished for, I would wish only for us never to be parted, in life or death. 

The Silmarils! They are children's toys, mere pretty baubles, playthings for fools, when set against the passion I feel for you. You yourself in scorn told my father they were things of little worth compared to me. But they are also things of little worth compared to you. They say Fëanor burned, but my love shall burn brighter yet, shall echo down all the Ages. Songs of our love shall ring in the mists of time so far dim and faint that even I cannot comprehend it. 

And yet - if you wish it, if I cannot persuade you with tear-wet eyes and clinging arms to wed me now, to wander with me far from grief and woe - let's go get one. And when we do, I'll fling my bride-price at my father's feet in mingled pride and scorn, and ask him which he thinks the fairest: that prisoned tree sap, or my living light?


End file.
